


A Study in Years

by hisfoolishgirl



Series: APTX WATSON [1]
Category: Magic Kaito, Sherlock (TV), 名探偵コナン | Detective Conan | Case Closed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Gen, John is a very patient man, Kid John, Light Cross Over, More of a Different Move In, Shrunken John Watson, kindaaaa, very light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 10:19:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13832130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hisfoolishgirl/pseuds/hisfoolishgirl
Summary: Sherlock rubbed at his face, “I don’t take cases from children.” He said simply, “And this is why.”John was not amused.After all, He couldn't just tell Sherlock that he'd been kidnapped and almost murdered. But that instead of, yeah know, dying from the poisoning that he'd physically regressed by nearly two decades.





	A Study in Years

**Author's Note:**

> This is a crossover, but for this segment the only matter that you need to know about Detective Conan is thoroughly explained throughout this work. High suspension of disbelief perhaps due to the premise. However while this is going to try to remain canon compliant to Sherlock - once we hit Ep. 3/The Great Game? Then it's going to go off the rails and completely pull in narrative beats from Conan and the cast. 
> 
> And if you're here from Conan? Sorry. This is rooted in BBC's Sherlock foremost. However - Sherlock and John are fairly well set up on their own in this piece as it is for the most an exploration of what would happen if it seemed like the world really put Sherlock in the position of watching after a kid. Conan and crew will be brought in for the third part. And the third part is an obnoxious length. Because I'm not gonna short change them boys. Got all them Gosho boys in England. And, if I recall correctly, it is complete with Vermouth trying to play all sides. Like before my next round of edits (to make it compliant to rewrites of this piece) it's clocking at 30k+ while the entire original document is resting at 57k. I feel very comfortable in claiming that this is a proper crossover, and that if you enjoy my Hawaii pieces you're going to enjoy the twists and narrative around them boys once they show up. They are my first detective loves.
> 
> This is un-beta'ed and not a britpicked. So apologizes on that front. It however has been completely reworked from the ground up for the plot of it. 
> 
> Also, and perhaps more importantly, I will be getting slammed IRL with IRL stuff shortly. I have 5 segments completed already, but it hardly a completed narrative. I want to finish it, but to be fair eating is of utter most importance compared to writing fan fiction. I mentioned that it might take a while for me to find time again to work on this in my last Conan fan fic, and a couple of folks said that they'd be interested in reading it anyways. 
> 
> And I am nothing if not - well - eager to please for those that leave comments. So here it is. This is for BeautifulChaos56 and Rora - I hope you enjoy. :) I did really enjoy writing it so I hope it shows.

John had hated his blasted leg before getting into the cab, and he hated it now, after the trip - even if he didn’t have the limp anymore.

Cab fares were a drain on the wallet. But the quicker he got to Baker’s St? 

He had thought it would be worth it. 

The conversation with Sherlock Holmes hadn’t lasted long, and the website told him only things that he could never believe if he hadn’t been on the other end of them beforehand.

To be honest, he didn’t know if he was looking forward to looking at the flat with Sherlock. He wasn’t sure if sharing a flat with the man would be a safe decision, but he found himself riding there anyways in the back of a cab. It wasn't like he was swimming in options after all.

However the cab turned out to be a ride with a not very nice man. Jefferson Hope is what the Cab Id had said. He’d noticed it on the way out of the vehicle. Hadn’t had a reason to read it beforehand -- had he known the way to Baker’s St anyways. 

Maybe if he had, he would have noticed that they were driving in the wrong direction before the man had jumped out of the car with the insistence to help him out of the cab. 

Bloody insulted is what Dr. Watson had been at that.

Then, Mr. Hope had pulled out a gun -- a very real one amazingly enough -- and insisted that he help John up into the house and up the stairs to ‘his flat’.

John really hated his bloody leg. Would have ran to Baker’s St otherwise. Or walked. Or taken the tube. Or been in Afghanistan still. Working as a surgeon.

Probably the latter of all those options if he was honest with himself. He knew he shouldn’t miss the heat, the sand and the stress, but he feared that a small bit of him did at the end of the day. Despite what the therapist told him.

You couldn’t miss something if you were haunted by it. 

“You’re a doctor. A man of science,” Mr. Hope purred as the nuzzle of a very real gun led him up the stairs, “How do you feel about being apart of an experiment?”

“Is it an exercising one? I would have signed a waiver. An NDA. Will be lab rat for payment -- and not in the form of a bullet to the brain.”

Mr. Hope laughed at that, “Oh. You’ll only wish I’d shot you in the head by the time I’m done with you.”

Dr. John Watson frowned at that. There was a reason why doctors swore to do no harm. It was a very, very easy thing to do otherwise.

* * *

 

Sherlock stood in the crime scene, and he stared at Lestrade, “I really hadn’t believed you before.”

Lestrade waved at the clothing, “I told you! No body.”

“But there’s the -”

“Vial -- Like all the others!”

“So you think the killer left the clothing, but took the body this time?”

Lestrade nodded, “Unless you have a better answer-”

Sherlock’s phone buzzed. He checked it without a thought. He waved it at Lestrade, “I told you. I had someone coming by.”

“Thought they were suppose to show up two hours ago.”

Sherlock frowned at that, but he fluttered away. 

He never took the time to clarify that Mrs. Hudson had texted to tell him that his nephew had dropped by.

After all -- He didn’t have a nephew. Which means he had a far more interesting mystery falling into his lap.

* * *

 

The boy at the table couldn’t sit still and that is why Mrs. Hudson fussed over the boy like he was her own as they waited for Sherlock to show up. 

He didn’t talk to her, not much anyways. Shy little thing. He had introduced himself -- name was John. Asked to see Sherlock. All he had said. He’d shuffled a out all nervous like in front of her. Didn’t met her eyes. 

It had only taken a moment to remember that Sherlock had mentioned a brother once. Why else would a little boy be showing up at their doorsteps? 

With a quick nod, She had ushered him up the flight of stairs, and sat him down at the table for a cuppa and biscuits. She noticed his fluster, and she carried the conversation for him. You’d have to do that for little ones after all. Kept ‘em pinned and focused while you waited. Otherwise they were likely to climb up walls or window shades.

And maybe the small smile that she managed to get out of the flustered little thing kept her at it. He didn’t seem bothered by the company anyways. Even if he didn’t really talk much.

* * *

 

Sherlock ran up the stairs if the tussle and pound up them was anything to go by. John nearly questioned his life choices as he saw the man, a bit tussled, staring him down, “Very good, Mrs. Hudson,” He said with a quick nod, “Wasn’t expecting Mycroft’s boy to come by today. Otherwise I wouldn’t have left.”

Mrs.Hudson said something to that, but John was too busy not looking at Sherlock and trying to piece together what the man had said to focus on what she had said. He watched her leave, and Sherlock took her spot.

“You’re not my nephew,” He whispered after they’d heard the door close behind Mrs. Hudson.

“She’s very nice,” He whispered instead. He looked like he was a bloody seven year old child.

“John was it,” Sherlock answered drily.

He looked up at that, but didn’t nod.

“Why are you here, boy?”

John winced at that, “Don’t right know,” He admitted, “But I don’t have anywhere else to go. Heard you were a detective. I thought you might be able to help me.”

“With what, John?”

He shrugged. That’s something that kids did right? Shrug instead of use their words.

The man let out a strangled sigh, “I was suppose to met with someone else today. A grown man - so about four times your height - Dr. John Watson? Do you happen to have any sort of a relationship to him,  _ John _ ?”

John looked up at Sherlock with wide, wide eyes, “Why would I?” He asked, “I have a mystery of my own that I can’t solve.”

Sherlock nodded at that, but his gaze trailed away.

“So you want me to solve a case for you,” He said slowly, “But you won’t tell me about it?”

John shrugged again.

Sherlock rubbed at his face, “I don’t take cases from children.” He said simply, “And this is why.” He tapped the table, “You need to be able to tell me -”

“Fine,” John snapped, “My actual uncle’s gone missing!”

His train of thought was a string of curses as he tried to find the set of skills that had got him through his required humanities courses during university.

“And that is your Doctor John Watson,” He found, “Mum doesn’t talk to him. She didn’t know we were suppose to spend the afternoon together. He didn’t show up. I want you to find him.”

Sherlock froze and stared at him.

Ideally, Sherlock would figure out the truth, but John hadn’t thought he’d be able to figure it out in that moment. His gaze made it seem likely that he had however.

“Really?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that, “You couldn’t have lead with that?”

John shrugged, and he looked away. He hoped Sherlock couldn’t see him roll his eyes. After all, leading with ‘ _ On my way I happened to loose nearly twenty or so years of my life. In a very physical sense -- not just in a they don’t know how to drive in big cities sort of way.’ _ Was the sanest way to start any conversation.

He was a kid. It was as simple as that.

_ “I’m gonna have you try this simply pill,” Mr. Hope told him, with a vial in his raised hand, “And then you’ll tell me all about how it feels.” _

_ “Oh really?” _

_ “If you don’t, then I’ll find Harriet. Employer’s told me all about her. I know you and your sister don’t get along, but will you really want to know that after I put a bullet in your brain her and Clara will be getting bullets or pills of their own? And after they’ve been divorced for a couple of months now, and you returned from the service and what not. I’m sure they’ll be easy for me to put down. Harry’s been drinking quite a bit more now you know - and Clara? Well, Thought she’d been done with your family by now I suppose. Perhaps it will be a bit of dramatic irony that a Watson is the cause of her death after all - even if it isn’t from the stress of living with your little sister, eh?” _

_ John swallowed. There was no way for the man to know, “Why?” _

_ “Why go after them-?” _

_ “Why do you know so much?” _

_ “Want to make sure we know all the variables, now don’t we Dr. Watson? Controlled experiments are what my sponsor wants. Can’t just kill people in London, now can I?” _

_ “I’m not the first one am I then?” _

_ Mr. Hope conceded with a nod. _

_ “Thank god then that you’re not getting away with just killing people in London then,” He hissed. _

_ Mr. Hope smiled at that, “Now, Dr. Watson. Don’t be like that.” _

_ “I’ll be however I fucking want-” _

_ Mr. Hope held up the pill once more, and he leveled the gun, “You’ll either take your medicine - or I’ll shoot you and go after  _ someone  _ else that I can persuade to take it.” _

_ John took the vial from Mr. Hope’s hands, “You’ll just go after them anyways.” _

_ Mr. Hope smiled at that, “No,” He answered, softly, “My sponsor already has the next tester lined up. And a plan b if we do get caught.” _

_ John nodded, “Bloody hell,” He grumbled before tossing the pill back.  _

_ It burned, and he was only vaguely aware of the rumble of steps and shouting in the background. _

_ And the screaming.  _

Now that he was thinking about it again, he supposed the screaming might have been his own. He looked up at Sherlock. It had felt like his bones had melted away. 

They had.

He swallowed and he stared at Sherlock, “I need to know,” He whispered, “I need to know what happened to Dr. John Watson, and I think you might be the only one that can help me.”

* * *

 

Sherlock saw the boy was hiding something, but the pain in his eyes caught his breath away.

The clothing. The outfit that Lestrade’s killer had left behind.

He pulled out his mobile and he rang Lestrade, “Sherlock-”

“Any id?” He snapped, “For the clothing. Was there a wallet?”

“Yeah,” Lestrade grumbled, “If you’re interested in hearing about the case now…”

“I don’t have time to play footsie, Lestrade. Who was it?”

“There was military ID in the wallet. It belonged to one Captain John Watson - Doctor. Part of the-”

“You said John Watson?” Sherlock repeated. He glanced at the boy. The boy was sitting straighter, alert.

At attention. 

Why would he think that? 

Doesn’t matter. Would have picked that up from the uncle he admired.

“Anything else? A cane?”

“No. No cane-” Sherlock hung up at that. He stared at the boy.

“Killer made a mistake,” He told the boy - another John. Named after his uncle? Before the adults had a squabble?

Wouldn’t he go by Johnathan then? Long form --

Maybe there was nothing that John was short for.

“Do you think you’d be able to recognize your uncle’s cane if you saw it?”

“That blasted thing?” The kid grumbled. His eyes were dark, shadowed before a smile cut that away, “Of course!”

Interesting.

Now, Sherlock just had to figure out why.

“Mrs. Hudson thinks you’re my nephew,” Sherlock said with a sharp nod. He rose with ease, “We’ll stick with that story or else they might try and send you back home to your mother.”

The boy paled at that, “Please no.”

Sherlock smiled, “Of course we’ll try to avoid that, John.”

“Wait- Did you say ‘Killer’ earlier?” The boy mumbled before trailing after Sherlock.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder, “They found his clothing at the scene that matches with the setup of the serial suicides that have been happening. Only difference is that a few teens had found a man screaming, alone, in that spot. They’d run before calling emergency services of course. Nerves. Just kids -- You might not think that of teens at your age, but I assure you-” John looked like he didn't need assured if his small nod meant anything.

If it meant anything. Did it?

“They were. By the time any one had managed to return to the scene of the crime - it was empty except for the vial and a bundle of clothing. Your uncle’s clothing if the wallet found with it really did belong to him.

“Now,” Sherlock continued as he closed the door to Baker’s St behind them, “You said you think I’m the only one that can help you find your uncle - Why?”

John shrugged, “You were the one in his browser history.”

“You had his computer?”

“I have a spare key?”

It sounded like a question. Why did it sound like a question when he was simply answering?

Sherlock ran a hand down his face. What -- What was he missing about this little John Watson in front of him --

He stared at the boy.

_ No. No.  _ It couldn’t be that.

Sherlock pulled out his mobile, and quick dialed the last number he’d sent out, “Lestrade?”

“ _Yes, Sherlock_?”

“Did you find anything else in the clothing?”

“No. Just the wallet. It only had some cards and the ID. No cash. Do you think it was a robbery-”

“Of course not.” Sherlock snapped before hanging up the phone. He turned to John, “Do you have your uncle’s number?”

The boy swallowed. He looked away.

He was nervous. He was about to lie.

“No,” He managed.

Sherlock bit back his anger. He should have gotten the number himself yesterday. Sent the text to his own mobile as well as to Lestrade’s. 

But why would the boy lie-

No time. “I’ll call Mike then,” Sherlock grumbled. He watched the boy freeze up.

He recognized the name. Stamford hadn’t seen John before yesterday, and the good doctor most certainly hadn’t had a kid trailing around his feet yesterday either.

Maybe John and Mike had been closer then it had seemed -- No. Otherwise Mike would have mentioned that he’d had a possible flat mate in mind. People that were important to each other kept in touch. They hadn’t kept in touch.

So why was --

“Are you hungry?” Sherlock asked. He looked away. He swallowed. He nodded. He lied, “Kid like you. Almost dinner time. Will be dinner time. Suppose you need fed?”

John nodded slowly, “Yeah? Maybe?”

Sherlock nodded, and he pulled out his mobile. He shot off a text to Mike, a short request to met him with him at Angelos. New case, needed his consultation for it. A life was at risk.

His gaze lingered over the little John in front of him, and he couldn’t help but wonder how true that statement really was.

* * *

 

John and Sherlock were seated next to the window at Angelo’s. That was the only reason why he’d managed to see Mike Stamford before the portly man made it to their table.

“I have to go to the loo!” John shouted before diving away from Sherlock.

He wasn’t sure why he’d done that. Not once he’d locked himself into a stall. Instinct. Instinct that normally he’d trust --

Still did. Even after getting shot.

And poisoned.

He took a deep breath.

He’d gone to Sherlock’s flat. He’d done that to find answers, not because he thought Sherlock had them, but because he thought he’d be able to find them. The man was brilliant. John had noticed the sharpness gathering in his gaze since leaving Baker’s St. He had probably called Mike to confirm his suspicions.

But Mike knowing?

Anyone else knowing? 

John had lost years of his life - but he’d kept the memories of em. The pill had meant to kill him from the sound of what Mr. Hope had said. Experiment which caused the serial suicides. Suicides that had unidentifiable, untraceable poisons involved in them.

Still testing it.

Maybe they weren’t trying to kill people. Maybe John was what they’d been hoping would happen. Although - if survival had been the goal a secured location for follow up exams would have been the ideal.

And it wasn’t a matter of Mr. Hope overlooking the fact. He was simply a middle man, a drug runner for the testing. He’d ran the moment John had taken the pill. Only reason teens looking in the house would have only seen him screaming bloody murder

Or … ?

Or maybe he was just suppose to leave behind the dead?

But why would that have been-

John rubbed at the bridge of his nose.

Either way -- Did he trust Mike with knowing that a grown man could be a child again?

When John thought about it like that -- He wasn’t even sure he trusted Sherlock with that sort of knowledge. As a doctor, he knew he wouldn’t leave him alone with that.

But the drug had killed already, and would kill again. This was a fluke. 

There was no antidote either then, was there?

John swallowed. Not for a side effect anyways.

He hadn’t thought about that. He hadn’t had the time to. Still didn't.

He looked at the window again. Perhaps --

Perhaps he was wrong to try to find answers. They would be dangerous answers. 

He stood on the toilet seat then, and he slide out the window with far too much ease.

* * *

 

Sherlock saw the boy running on the other side of the street when his phone started to buzz. It was Mycroft’s number, and Sherlock had lost Dr. Watson to the crowds in the streets.

That had to be who the small John was after all. Why else run? 

Mike said something as Sherlock took the call -- while he ran for the door.

He knew it would be pointless, but --

“So, what is this about a nephew --”

“And I’ve lost him already, Mycroft. If you want to know what’s happened to your boy I suggest you find him yourself.”

And he hung up. Sherlock glanced at the camera over his head and he smirked as he watched it spin. 

Not knowing. Not having all the answers. It was a dangerous thing for a Holmes.

* * *

 

John had physically run. For a surprising amount of time considering the fact that just six hours or so earlier he’d had a massive amount of muscle burn away from his skeleton.

Diving into an alleyway to catch his breath though? 

Well, the black car and the black suited man? They confirmed that  _ that _ had been a very unwise idea.

He knew that if he’d had a bit more hight he might have wanted to know the name of the lady beside him.

However, he was just a boy, and he had been kidnapped for the second time that day. He kept his mouth shut, and he waited.

John didn’t know if he was waiting for a chance to run or for a chance to hear an explanation, but he did know one thing. It didn’t much matter which one he got. He just hoped that he would, indeed, get one of those to choose from.

* * *

 

Sherlock was a bit surprised to find them at his flat. Mycroft stood over the boy, and John looked like exactly that. A boy curled up on the couch after being yelled at by his old man for having his hands in the cookie jar.

Sherlock looked between them.

“He hasn’t spoken,” Mycroft answered with a frown.

John looked at Sherlock, and Sherlock simply raised an eyebrow. John pulled deeper into his ball, “Kidnapping now?”

“Not if he’s my son.”

“Is he?”

Mycroft looked at Sherlock in lieu of an answer.

“You mentioned it.”

Mycroft returned his focus to the boy, “Who is he?”

“Told me his name was John,” Sherlock answered, “But I doubt that’s the truth.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

“John Doe clearly,” Sherlock elaborated, “Hardly original.”

Mycroft frowned. 

“He doesn’t say much does he,” John grumbled, “When he’s not asking questions.”

Mycroft turned to Sherlock, “Likes you?”

John smirked as he watched them. Sherlock simply watched him back. John looked away at that.

Sherlock straighten, “Indeed so it seems he does. So, Mycroft. Bugger off. Thanks for returning him. I’m sure you’ll be able to find answers on your own. What with being the British government and all.”

Mycroft straightened up, “Sherlock- If you’re holding out on-”

“I’m not, brother dear. Why would I ever? When have I ever done that?”

“This is serious-”

“You’re right. There is a boy on my couch, and we don’t even know who he belongs to. So how about you go and find his actual parents for me. I’m sure they’d have noticed him gone by now.”

Mycroft frowned, “So he didn’t actually-”

“She presumed,” The boy mumbled, “Didn’t see a reason to correct her.”

Mycroft nodded.

“Was there actually-”

“Oh bugger off, Sherlock. I’ll keep in touch.”

Sherlock watched with a smirk as his brother stomped off. He smiled at John. He waited until he heard the front door slam before opening his mouth, “Now. Do you want me to call your phone or do want to just tell me what’s happened to you since yesterday, Dr. Watson?”

The boy straightened up, but he pulled out the phone from his back pocket. He set it on the coffee table in front of him with the screen down.

_ Harry Watson. From Clara. Xxx _

Sherlock swallowed, and the boy stood at attention, “How do you know these things?”

“I didn’t know,” Sherlock whispered. He picked up the phone, and he examined it further. The scratches were still there, “I saw.”

“And what did you see?” John asked, “What gave me away?”

Sherlock put the phone back down, “When you eliminate all impossibilities - no matter how improbable - you’re left with the truth. You weren’t have bad, trying to pass as a child.” 

He winced at that, “Means I wasn’t half good either.”

Sherlock smirked at that, “Oh no. I wouldn’t say that. Fooled Mycroft after all didn’t you?”

“I doubt that man knows what an actual child would act like.”

Sherlock snorted at that, “Real question, John, is why are you  _ here _ ?”

John nodded, and he shuffled about like he was trying to accommodate his cane. 

He had been right about the limp being psychosomatic.

“Looked you up on the internet last night,” John answered with a sharp nod before looking Sherlock in the eye, “Someone tried to kill me. I figured you’d be the best one to sort that out.”

“Kill you?”

“Clearly they didn’t succeed. Not in the way they intended to anyways.”

“Tell me everything, John.”

He shook his head, and Sherlock saw the spitfire of a captain in his eyes, “I ran away for a reason, Sherlock.”

“Dull --”

“Not dull,” John snapped.

“You’re worried about the possible ramifications of a drug that caused this sort of a physical age difference to happen to you. As I said. Dull. And -- I did chase Mycroft away from the matter. The man runs the British Government when he’s not playing at being CIA or anything else like that,” John swallowed at that. His eyes lingered over the door now with the answer to the mystery of who had, apparently, kidnapped him for the second time that day solved. “I wouldn’t trust him -- not until we actually know what’s going on.”

John nodded, “Do you think he’d…”

“He’d what, John?”

“Put me in a lab or something to study? Try to find out the secret to immortality or eternal youth?”

Sherlock snorted at that, “Having to be on a diet for the rest of time? Oh, no. I don’t think Mycroft would --” He met John’s eyes and saw genuine fear in his eyes, “Wait - That’s why you ran?”

John nodded, once.

Sherlock glanced at the kitchen, “Tea? Would you like a cuppa of tea?”

John nodded, “That would be nice. It’s been a long day.”

“I can only imagine.”

* * *

 

“Jefferson Hope?” Sherlock leaned back in his chair when John finished his story. John nodded at that, and he sighed.

“Yeah.”

“But you said he said he had a sponsor? Someone hired him to test their poison?”

John nodded, “Yeah. Figured you’d know what to do with that information.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that, “Oh?”

John nodded, “I googled you. Found your website, yeah, but it also brought up some local cases. There were over lapping articles. Like the ash. It was relevant info for a solved kidnapping.”

“So you thought --”

“I hoped. I prayed, and I found that I didn’t have a lot of options. Can’t quite go up to Scotland Yard like this now can I? I’d right love to see their faces when I tell them I’d like to report a murder. My own. That would go over bloody well.”

“And the lab stuff.”

“Mike liked ya enough to suggest moving in with you. Figured you wouldn’t be another murderer anyways.”

Sherlock smirked at that, and John shuffled in his seat, “Do they think that sometimes? Is that why you’re not mentioned in the actual reports?”

“Not in the reports because my work is free,” He answered, “Consulting detective.”

“That is what your site said. But they don’t consult amateurs.”

“You think I’m an amteur -- after correctly deducing that you’re a grown man in the body of a child.”

John groaned. Sherlock had a right point with that. He looked up at Sherlock and motioned for him to continue on with it.

“We have to find him.” Sherlock answered.

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” Sherlock rose with a grace that John hadn’t often seen outside of a theater, “He’s made a mistake. He should have stuck around to make sure you’d actually died.”

“Thanks, mate,” John grumbled. At this point in his evening with Sherlock however, he wasn’t really surprised that that had been the man’s response. After all, he’d been reaccounting his own murder to man, and never once had he seemed to sympathize. No apologies, condolences or pity were ever expressed. Not even a glimmer of shadow or paid in Sherlock’s eyes as he listened to John’s story. 

Instead, he had the look of a hound with a scent to follow.

It was still reassuring. 

“And now,” Sherlock continued, “I can bait him out.”

“What? How?”

“You said he had a Plan B for if they did get caught,” Sherlock answered with a smile, “We simply have to let him know that they’ve been caught.”

“You mean, you’re going to let them know that I’m alive?”

Sherlock waved his worry away, “You left your ID. And no one’s found your cane yet. You left it in the cab didn’t you?”

John swallowed.

“Yeah,” He whispered. He hadn’t thought about it, “Yeah I did.”

“Then we’ll just jump into the back of his cab and say we’re looking for it. You were headed over to find a flatmate after all. Would be rather odd for you to be one of those serial suicides considering that, don’t you think?”

“I had a mate that called in to confirm his shift before being found having od’ed on pills.”

Sherlock froze at that, but only for a moment before shrugging his coat back on, “Then we’ll just have to hope that Mr. Hope doesn’t think of the same defense.”

John watched the tall man flutter away before dodging back around to peak back at John through the door frame, “You’re coming aren’t you?”

“I’m just a kid-”

“No you’re not. Now, come on.” And then Sherlock was off again, “Although it could be dangerous!”

John smirked, “Bloody bastard.” There was no heat in his voice as he followed after Sherlock, running down the stairs.

“Oh yes,” Sherlock was weezing into the phone, “I’m calling because I’m hoping to find my wallet. I know I had it when I paid my cabbie, but it must have dropped out of my pocket. Oh -- Yes. I think it was Hope? Jefferson Hope? Do you have a number or something so I could call him and see if he has -- Oh, Thank you so much!”

* * *

 

They were sitting in the back of a cab. It wasn’t Hope’s. They were riding back to the crime scene.

“We have to check some skips first,” Sherlock explained, “We have to see if he’s ditched the cane.”

“And if he has?”

“Then we’ll plant the phone in his cab.”

“That can’t be legal-”

“It would be. If I wasn’t a consulting detective.”

“So. That’s why.”

“Don’t be dull, John. Of course that’s why. Too much red tape for me otherwise.”

“Of course. Heaven forbid we should keep our law enforcement to high standards.”

Sherlock snorted at that, “High standards. That’s adorable, John.”

“I swear if that was a height joke, Sherlock-”

“What you’d bite my ankles?”

John glanced at the cabbie before leaning in, “I was a surgeon,” He whispered softly, “Do I need to explain?”

“You were a doctor, John.”

“And. A soldier. I killed people.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that, but he shuffled his legs about, “Don’t leave you alone with my ankle’s then. Got it.”

John laughed, and slowly a smile spread on Sherlock’s face as well, “Is it always like this for you?”

“Oh no. People normally just tell me to piss off.”

Their laughter grew. It only stopped at their stop. A skip for the rubbish. John stared at the bin, “I’m not climbing in there.”

Sherlock smiled, “Of course not. You’re my look out.”

“Because of course this is illegal as well,” He huffed.

“Oh not at all. But people still don’t like it.”

John rubbed the bridge of his nose, but he kept watch.

* * *

 

It took three skips total to find John’s cane.

“So you said we have to plant my mobile now?”

“That way we can have Lestrade follow up by -”

John’s mobile started to buzz. He pulled it out to see that it was Harry. He looked up at Sherlock.

“Well, there went that plan then.”

“I guess your detective finally informed next of kin.”

“Probably just asked after you to see if he could find you rather then that. Missing person’s case after all.”

“What? I just climbed up two stories, got naked and then ran away - not with my wallet but my mobile?”

Sherlock shrugged, “Whenever they are out of their depths. They consult me. And that, John, is always.”

“You saw the crime scene then? They already brought you in on this case?”

Sherlock nodded, “Of course. The vial made it seem like you were another part of the serial suicides.”

“Because it was.”

Sherlock nodded, “Just got lucky you did.”

“Who would even hire a mad man to act as a middle man just so they could randomly kill people?”

Sherlock frowned for a moment as he thought about it, “An organization of some sort, I suppose. Contracted the confirmation out of house. Second hand opinion that way. If you didn’t trust your scientist that was the lead on the project?”

“You, Sherlock, are brilliant, but that is maddening! No way.”

Sherlock shrugged, “I don’t like playing with my food. How about I just call him and see what happens?”

“Did you just -”

“I am a detective, John. The criminal class of London is my prey.”

John threw his hands up in the air, “I give up trying to make any sense of you.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “You were trying to make sense of me?”

“I’m trusting you not to sell me to the government - or to any other sort of organization that would by what ever happened to me! Of course I’m trying to make sense of you!”

“Oh.”

“ ‘Oh,’ he says.” John mumbled.

“Can I see you’re phone?” Sherlock asked with his hand extended.

John handed it over without a thought, “Wait - Why?”

“Might recognize my number from the site. Might not pick up then.” He answered simply as he pulled out his small scratch pad. He dialed the number with ease.

John rolled his eyes before taking a few paces away. He glanced up and down the street before his eyes lingered on the street camera above them. It was looking right at them.

‘Uncle’ Mycroft was the British Government. It took a shamefully large amount of self restraint to keep from flicking the man off.

He looked back at Sherlock who nodded, “He knows we’re after him.”

“So now, we just wait for his Plan B then?” John frowned.

Sherlock frowned at that as well, “It’s not just waiting, John.”

“Oh?”

Sherlock’s frown deepened, “His plan b? It’s to get rid of me.”

“Wha-”

“Do keep up, John. Clearly that’s his plan b if only someone is was getting onto what he’s been doing.”

“Well - When you put it that way.”

Sherlock nodded.

“But you bloody idiot-”

“What else should we have done, John? There is no body. There is no crime. And there is no way to connect him to the other cases!”

“Fine. But, there’s somewhere that I want to go first then.”

“Oh?”

* * *

 

“You don’t have your keys,” Sherlock managed not to choke on his words, but only because he let them out slowly. John glared up at him.

It was odd knowing that the kid at his waist was hardly just that.

“I forgot.”

“How do you have proper sized clothing anyways?”

John raised an eyebrow. “I kept my cash.”

“Why did you leave everything behind?”

“You mean everything other then my phone and my money?”

Sherlock nodded, before reaching into the interior pocket of his coat for his pick set. He knelt down beside John.

John watched for a moment as he set up the pics, “I’m a kid, Sherlock. Why would I have had all the other stuff on me. If I got picked up…”

Sherlock nodded, “Quick thinking.”

John grunted, “Use to thinking on the fly, Sherlock.”

“What happened? I mean, the limp was psychosomatic.”

“Multiple wounds. Shoulder. Leg got clipped, infected. But, the limp was exactly what you said it was.”

“Do you still have the scars?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting.”

“More so then everything else?”

“Not really,” He admitted before pushing the door open, “Via la.”

“Thanks.” John watched as he put up the picks before leading the way in, “There’s tea and some stuff in the kitchen if you want anything.”

“I don’t eat while I’m on a case-”

“Waiting is a case now?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at that, but he looked around anyways after he closed the door behind them, “Why did you want to come around here anyways?”

“Pick something up if you’re going to reckless-”

“Reckless?!”

“That was reckless. Is going to be? Doesn’t matter.” John peaked back out from around the corner, “I got what I need.”

“Sure you don’t want to pack up or grab anything else?” Sherlock couldn’t tell what John had grabbed.

John raised an eyebrow, “And what would I grab?”

“You’re moving into Baker’s St aren’t you?”

“What?”

“What did you think would happen once we got Hope off the street, John?”

“John Doe,” He said, “That’s what you told, Mycroft. Don’t see why-”

“Don’t be silly, John. You can’t be serious.”

“What else am I suppose to do? I’m no longer a legal adult, and I don’t want to explain the situation, Sherlock. No other choice but to play little lamb lost once this is over.”

“Ridiculous.”

“Oh? And, what else can I do, Sherlock?”

“I still need a flatmate.”

“You still - Of course it’s - We’ll talk about it later, Sherlock. Yeah? How about that? We’ll talk about it later.”

“If there is a later. I now have my own serial killer coming after me.”

“Jesus, Sherlock-”

Sherlock’s laughter cut off the kid. John stared at him for a moment, but then his laughter mingled in as well.

“This is all so ridiculous.”

“And you’re the kid chasing after a murderer.”

“Stop.”

The laughter didn’t stop.

* * *

 

“I tried to ask them to leave,” Mrs. Hudson spoke as soon as Sherlock opened the door to 221 Baker St, “No little boy should watch that.”

“Hm?”

“What have you done, Sherlock?”

“Mrs. Hudson?”

She waved at the stairs, “Up there,” She reached out to hold John back, “I’ll make sure to keep an eye on-"

Sherlock was up the stairs, “Nephew stays with me, Mrs. Hudson. You have met his father.”

John slid out of grasp anyways. The barrel of his gun tucked into the back of his shirt. It was a close call with her trying to pull him close. He ran up the stairs, his hand easing back towards it, but he let Sherlock keep point.

“Ah!” A man let out from the still opened door, “Sherlock! Was wondering when you’d show up.”

“What is this, Lestrade?” Sherlock snapped. His eyes flew back to John.

“You can't be withholding evidence from us-"

“I am not on the case,” He snapped with ease. John snuck around Sherlock's legs to take count of everyone else in the flat.

There was no Jefferson Hope at least. The way the crew ruffled around however did not put John as ease.

He glanced at Sherlock, but the man his focus on the detective they've been talking about - but not to - the entire night.

“You have been biting at the bit to get involved,” Lestrade snapped, “You can't tell me that you dropped it just because you had an interested party coming by to share the flat with you. A person that I will have noted that your landlady hasn't seen hide nor hair of.”

Sherlock frowned at that, and John moved closer to the man. He didn't grab at Sherlock’s trousers like a proper kid might of. He moved in closer like he had a gun and a partner to watch the back of. Lestrade glanced down, but only briefly.

Before staring down at John. That was when John realized that maybe he should start pulling at the kid card. He grabbed at Sherlock’s trousers. Sherlock twitched at that, but his hand rested safely, reassuringly, on John’s shoulder. The picture perfect image of a man with his smaller sized relative. Even if they didn't look like blood.

“Who is that?” A lady from the kitchen piped up before Lestrade could figure out how to work his jaw, “Don't tell me kidnapping is more up your alley then murder.”

“Sherlock?” John pulled closer and looked up with a hidden raised an eyebrow. Sherlock didn't look down or acknowledge John’s comment.

“My nephew,” Sherlock hissed, “My nephew is the one moving in with me.”

John pulled away, or rather he tried. Sherlock held him in place. He looked up at Lestrade, and Lestrade pointed at John’s face, “Doesn’t look like he -”

“Agrees? Wants to?” Sherlock provided, then he laughed, “Think before you speak, for god’s sake. Why do you think the boy’s moving in?”

Lestrade paled, “Did your brother-”

“No,” Sherlock answered sharply, “But considering who he is…”

Lestrade straightened up. Then he nodded once. He looked at John like he was seeing a ghost, “Won’t spread word either?”

Sherlock nodded, “That would be appreciated.”

Lestrade turned to the rest of his crew, “You heard that,” He looked at John, “What’s your name lad?”

“John.” He answered simply.

“Like our vic-” He cut off his words and turned back to his crew, “We’re not telling anyone that John’s hear, kay?”

“And why is that? Just because the freak-”

“Do you know Detective Inspector Sam Brown?”

“Who?” A man piped up.

“Exactly. I doubt even her husband recalls her,” Lestrade insisted, “And that’s why we’re not telling anyone.”

“That makes no sense - If the freak -”

“Weren’t you listening?” Sherlock snapped, “This is my nephew. If you put his safety at risk -- Then it is my brother that you are risking.”

“And his brother,” Lestrade’s hand was shoved deep into his pockets. John knew that for what it was. The man was trying to hide that he was scared, “Is not the sort that you risk messing with.”

“Mob boss?” The man repeated.

“Politician, Anderson.”

“Shite.” Anderson whispered. He stared at Sherlock for a moment, “Wait - Really?”

Sherlock smiled, like a shark with the scent of blood in his nose. John slipped away from Sherlock, and started to wander about the flat. It was a perimeter check though he doubted anyone would notice it for what it was.

“Are you able to work on the case now then?” Lestrade grumbled.

Sherlock nodded, “Apologizes for putting family first.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes, “Found his sister, Harriet. Though she does prefer to go by Harry.”

John snorted at that. That was one way of putting it. Sherlock frowned, but Lestrade was the one that looked at John. John peered out the window. A cab was pulling up to the front door.

Hope. It had to be Jefferson Hope.

They had the police, and the criminal was swaggering up to their door. And they still had no evidence for his arrest.

_ Goddammit. _

John wandered back over to Sherlock who was listening to all of the details that Lestrade had found out in a quick search of his life story like he hadn’t guessed them himself twenty-four hours earlier at a lab in St. Barts. John pulled out Sherlock’s mobile from his pocket and started to wander away from Sherlock. 

Sherlock frowned at him, but he didn’t interrupt Lestrade as he went through the details of what John had gone through during for his medical discharge from the service. John barely listened to it. Lestrade’s voice was hollowed with a bit of respect, and pain. 

It had been painful, but John had had boys under his scalpel that had gone through worse. He watched the people around him while he looked like he was playing with Sherlock’s mobile. Once no one was watching, he switched it with his own mobile. 

Then he wandered over to Sherlock and put it in the same spot that Sherlock’s mobile had be been in originally. The man checked his pocket, and he saw the difference in mobile. His eyes flittered over to the window before resting on John.

John nodded, and that was when Mrs. Hudson tried to interrupt, “Sherlock -  Your cab is here-”

“There’s a laptop over there, John.” Sherlock simply stated, “Password is 7437562533.”

“What?”

“You’re bored. You’re wandering around - and I have a cab waiting for me. I want you to stay here, and the password to my laps is 743…”

“Got it.”

“7562.”

“Got that as well now.”

“533.”

“Okay. I’m in. Thanks, Sherlock.”

“He,” Anderson said with a rib to the woman who had spoken up earlier, “Doesn’t sound like a kid. Are we sure it’s okay to-”

“He’s a Holmes,” Lestrade cut them off, “He’s fine. I have been worried if he did sound like a wee one like my own.”

Anderson shrugged at that, “I’m just saying-”

“Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson grumbled, “You really mustn’t leave your cabbie waiting on you.”

Sherlock looked at Lestrade, “Well, we won’t find anything else about where Dr. John Watson has gotten to by standing around my flat now will we? Are you going to keep up with this pretend…?”

“Drugs bust,” Lestrade grumbled.

“Pretend drugs bust,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

John snorted at that, and the entire crew turned to him, “Sherlock a - You know what. You’re right. I don’t know anything about drugs.”

Sherlock smirked at that, biting back his laughter. He turned to Greg with a twinkle in his eyes, “I found his cane in a skip. That means that someone else was involved with the events that lead up to the doctor’s disappearance.”

“You can’t keep withholding evidence-”

“Would any of that hold up in a court of law? If not, is it evidence.”

Lestrade looked about ready to give Sherlock a bit of his mind.

“The case hasn’t broken yet, has it?”

“Outside of informing his sister - only relative - that he’s currently missing?” Lestrade mentioned, “No.”

Sherlock nodded, and then looked over to Mrs. Hudson. John followed his line of sight. 

Jefferson Hope stood there, smiling at Sherlock.

“Looks like it’s time for me to take my cab.”

* * *

 

John was punching in the website for tracking his ph one when Lestrade sat down beside him. He looked up and he saw the flat was empty, “Where did-”

“Sent them to keep following up on actual leads,” He said simply before leaning back, his own mobile in hand.

“Why are you here then? Shouldn’t you be leading the search for the doctor?” Perhaps Sherlock was right about their abilities.

“Not going to leave ya alone with no one to supervise you, kid.”

_ Oh. _ “Mrs. Hudson is already downstairs again, and she was moaning about her hip.”

“Ah.” 

Lestrade looked up at the screen, and he saw what John had pulled up. He stilled, and John managed to keep a wince off of his face, “What is that?”

“Sherlock thinks Watson was involved with a cabbie. We didn’t have anything but his guts to go with. We managed to, uh, find the cab that probably is responsible for getting Watson to that house…”

“And that’s the cab that Sherlock just got into?”

Lestrade fly up with a stomp to pace about the room, “And so you’re telling me that-”

“He’s gotten into the cab of a killer? Probably.”

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock-” He looked at John, “Sorry. Don’t tell anyone that-”

John rolled his eyes, “You speak french?”

Lestrade closed his mouth and frowned at John, “You are related to Sherlock after all, huh?”

John smirked at that.

“I’m going to take that laptop to follow after him-”

John pulled the laptop closer.

“John Holmes,” Lestrade growled, “You’re not coming with.”

“If you want the laptop. I am. You’re not going after him alone.”

“I have an entire department-”

“And what? Use department resources just follow the words of a kid - and Sherlock's? Without evidence? It seems that you keep him off the record for a myriad of reasons. He got in a cab, and there’s no evidence that the cabbie is the killer.”

“But you seem convinced.”

John shrugged, “Is that really enough?”

“You’re coming with me then. Bring the laptop. It’s not like you’ll be able to get a cab on your own.”

John frowned at that. He’d forgotten to think about that.

* * *

 

Sherlock stared the gun -- this one a fake since he was looking so closely at it after John’s story. It was different. He stared up at Jefferson, “Now, Come along, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock sighed, “Boring. I can’t believe you make people take their own lives at gunpoint.”

Mr. Hope smirked at that, “It’s better then that. I don’t need this with you, now do I? You’ll follow me on your own, won’t you?”

The man had been dreadfully boring on the ride to where Sherlock presumed would be his ideal spot for Sherlock’s own murdered site. He had taken all the credit for his crimes, and Sherlock had let him lead the conversation to do that.

Although, he had mentioned that Sherlock had a fan, and that that fan had warned him of Sherlock.

That would be his boss.

Sherlock followed after the man.

* * *

 

They parked next to a cab in an empty college parking lot, “Suppose you two were right about it being a shoddy cabbie.”

His comment was pointed. John was flattered by the man’s trust in Sherlock, but he shrugged.

“Stay here then,” Lestrade grumbled before jumping out.

John sat in the car, as instructed by Lestrade. He watched as Lestrade went into the building in the right. 

He slide out, and he went into the building on the left.

* * *

 

Sherlock sat down across from Mr. Hope.

“And what’s in it for me?”

Mr. Hope smirked, “Best bit. I take the pill from the other-”

“Oh, so that way it looks like I’ve killed you?” Sherlock leaned forward, “No. I want something else. I want to know the name of my fan - your sponsor.  _ Your employer. _ ”

“Not up for grabs.”

Sherlock frowned, and then he grabbed one of the vials. He held it up to the light. It was white and pink. Exactly as John described. They both looked identical.

Sherlock rose, “Well then,” He said simply before pocketing the vial he chose, “I guess, it’s time for-”

Mr. Hope held up the gun, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that, “Do you think that will-”

The man pulled the trigger. A flicker of light played at the end. He paled.

Sherlock went rigid. He didn’t know his gun wasn't real this time.

“Who is your employer, Mr. Hope-”

There was a gunshot, and a snap of steps following. Sherlock looked up, and he saw a woman in a black catsuit stock out of the shadows. “Sherlock,” She purred, “How is your brother doing?”

Sherlock said nothing.

“That vial you have in your pocket,” She continued. She leveled her gun at his direction, “I think you know now that mine is a gun that works. Do be a dear-”

“Who are you?”

“An interested party. I am not your fan however.”

“You’re the one that hired him, aren’t you?”

She frowned slightly at that, “Why do you think that?”

Sherlock smiled, “I’m a detective. It’s my job.”

“Just consulting one,” She corrected, “Who are you working for.”

“Myself. Believe it or not, curiosity is a powerful motivator.”

She took a step closer, “That isn’t the right pill,” She answered, “One of them is a fake.”

“More likely they are both real,” Sherlock admitted, “Cleaning up loose ends that way. Killing both of us that is.”

“Quite the leap of logic.”

Sherlock said nothing. He couldn’t tell her that he knew that this was a back up plan-

“We tried to confirm the fate of Doctor John Watson,” She said nonchalantly, “I suppose you wouldn’t happen to know what happened to him after all?”

Sherlock didn’t look away. He knew there was no right answer. She nodded. She knew that as well. She put away her gun, and she stared at Sherlock, “I can’t let you leave with our samples.”

“That’s why you put away your gun.”

“I’ll give you his name,” She answered as she stepped over to the table and grabbed the unclaimed vial, “Your fan. The one that we hired. Our consulting criminal as it were,” She stated with a smirk.

Sherlock pulled the vial out of his pocket and he stared at the pill as he thought.

“I have someone working on the antidote,” She whispered softly. Sherlock nearly dropped the pill as his attention snapped at full attention, “And I assure you - for as little as my word is worth - I have no reason to pass this information on to any other parties.”

“Why?”

“Oh, Mr. Holmes. It is secrets that make a woman woman. Now, can I have that pill? Or do I have to kill you for it?”

“Will you give me the antidote if I do?”

She shrugged, “There may never be one.”

He held up the vial, and he motioned that he was about to toss it to her, “Seem like quite the lady,” He grumbled before throwing it.

She caught it with ease, “Oh?”

He smirked, “That name?”

“Moriarty,” She answered softly. There was a squeak at the door, a pant of breath, and Sherlock turned in surprise to see Lestrade rushing in. 

“What happened here?” Lestrade asked motioning to the still corpse of Jefferson Hope.

Sherlock looked back at where the killer had been a moment ago, and he found it empty. An open window in the background must have been how she’d gotten in - and how she’d left.

“A secret, I suppose,” He answered before turning back to Lestrade, a highly skeptical looking Lestrade, “I don’t know,” He answered simply.

“You don’t-” Lestrade ran his fingers through his hair, “You don’t-”

Lestrade’s phone cut him off before he could do a repeat of doing such with his own frustration. Whoever was at the other end of the line made the detective pale.

“Understood.” He said simply before hanging up. His pupils were ragged as he stared at Sherlock, “What is the mess you Holmes boys are in?”

Sherlock shrugged, “If My didn’t tell. I don’t see why I should. I presume he’ll be the one sending cleaners by to handle this.”

Lestrade nodded, and at that Sherlock decided to sweep his way past him.

No one had noticed the boy with a handgun watching on from the window across the way, and with how the boy looked to be standing outside, leaning on Lestrade’s vehicle, no one decided to question it.

John met Sherlock’s eyes, “Case over with him then?”

“Heard the gunshot did you?”

“Surprised you don’t have a limp,” John answered simply, “Or any other wounds. I wouldn’t have been surprised if someone had decided to shoot you after all.”

Sherlock glared at John, who merely smirked in response.

A black car rolled up to the scene as Lestrade caught up with them. Mycroft swiftly slide out of the vehicle and motioned for the duo to enter, “Come on,” He snapped, “We don’t have all day.”

Sherlock glanced at John, and John straightened at that. 

Military. Sherlock took point.

Lestrade didn’t ask as he watched them climb into the new ride. He knew better then to ask after what had just happened as Mycroft stared him down. 

Lestrade simply, quietly, climbed into his vehicle and headed home for the evening.

* * *

 

John sat at the far end of the back seat of Mycroft’s car, “So,” Mycroft purred, “I see you’re keeping interesting company these days, Sherlock.”

“Who was that woman?” He asked curtly. That was John’s question as well despite not hearing what she’d had had to say.

“I found his parents.”

“No you didn’t,” John snapped, “Stop beating around a bush. Who was that bloody woman?”

Sherlock and Mycroft turned to John with wide eyes. John raised an eyebrow, “I was in the other building, looking in,” He explained.

Sherlock nodded, but Mycroft frowned. 

“That woman is an internationally wanted criminal that we’ve been tracking, but we haven’t been able to confirm anything for a court.”

“Well, yes. Saying that Chris Vineyard is a international criminal would be like claiming that Martin Freeman was - well the same. No one would believe it, and she’d definitely be able to afford the lawyers to get out of it.”

“Chris Vineyard?” Sherlock asked.

“You know from -”

“He doesn’t watch TV, John,” Mycroft clipped in, “He wouldn’t know the name of shows or movies anyways. She’s famous. We’ll leave it at that.”

“And she’s the one that hired Hope.”

“Interesting. I doubt it was directly.”

Sherlock nodded.

Mycroft stared at John, “But she knows about-”

“No. She realized that Hope was comprised and was trying to recover the product and close loose ends. Lestrade entered the scene, and I guess she decided to cut her losses. She did want me to send her regards to you. Must have been a professional courteousity that she let me live.”

Mycroft nodded.

“Didn’t know you cared that much about me,” Sherlock continued.

“Now, we just have to figure out what to do with good doctor here,” Mycroft interrupted.

“What? No we don’t,” Sherlock answered, “He has a perfectly good cover right now. I’ve already told Lestrade that my nephew was moving in due to - well I left it open to interpretation.”

Mycroft frowned.

John shrugged, and he looked away. 

“You’re therapist says you don’t trust easily, John,” Mycroft leaned back and he rubbed the bridge of his nose, “But you’ve come to Sherlock Holmes of all people, haven’t you?”

John didn’t look at Sherlock, but he nodded, “Yes. I suppose that I have.”

“I could set you up with a family that will treat you like a prodigy. You could go to college again in five years, relive the life you’ve had - Med school would be easier the second time around if you wanted to stay in the field. You could have a clean slate.”

John turned back to Sherlock and Mycroft, “Or I could move into Bakers St? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes,” Mycroft rolled his eyes, “That is one way of putting it.”

“Then I’ll stay with Sherlock thank you very much. If I’m going to be a helpless child I might as well be with someone that I - a) Trust. And, b) knows the truth of what’s going on.”

Sherlock smirked as the car pulled up to the curb of 221 Bakers St, “Then I’ll see you two off here then,” Mycroft grumbled, “And I’ll have the papers come around tomorrow.”

“Papers?”

“Sherlock will be formally adopting you, John. That way in case anything happens you’ll be with your sole guardian.”

“Ah.”

“As long as that is reasonable to you, John,” Sherlock spoke up. John nodded.

“Well, then. Make sure you feed the kid,” Mycroft grumbled as the door closed behind them. 

John flicked off the car as it drove away.

Sherlock smirked, “Hungry? I know a good Chinese place down the street.”

John smirked, “At this point - I don’t even care if it is a good Chinese place. Famished.”

Sherlock laughed at that, and they fell into an easy conversation on their way to the restaurant.


End file.
